


Days of Apple Pie

by jusrecht



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: M/M, POV Outsider, also part coffee shop au, ex-lovers!Gramander
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-20
Updated: 2018-01-20
Packaged: 2019-03-07 07:30:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13429878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jusrecht/pseuds/jusrecht
Summary: It’s a tall, awkward man with a British accent and he says, “Graves,” and there’s a weight of a thousand stories behind that single word.





	Days of Apple Pie

**Author's Note:**

  * For [yvonne_tsugu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yvonne_tsugu/gifts).



> Inspired by [this gorgeous art](https://twitter.com/Saya_tsugu/status/952742422366208005) by Sayatsugu. Although for some reason it ends up being a lot more maudlin than intended and for that I'm so sorry OTL
> 
> Title comes from a song by Great Lakes Myth Society.

She notices the older man first.

 

He’s the kind of man you notice. Suits on weekdays, turtlenecks and sports jackets on weekends. Gold-rimmed glasses. A dark brown leather briefcase that belongs more to boardrooms and courtrooms than sidewalk cafes.

 

His orders follow a pattern. Espresso in the morning. Cappuccino or Americano if he happens to drop by at noon. Once, he came in the evening and asked for a Chai Latte. She remembers wondering if something had happened, to put that dark, heavy look on his face.

 

His name is Jack—or so he says. She snorts and tells him that she has never met anyone who looks _less_ like ‘Jack’ in her life. He raises his eyebrows, one corner of his lips curved. _John, then,_ he suggests mildly. She rolls her eyes and write ‘Gerald’ instead. Half of the times, it’ll make him smile, a small, precious thing that sets her heart aflutter.

 

She never lets it go further than that. Life is a ladder with rungs and he’s obviously so far above her that limits are unconsciously set, but there is also something else. A vague, fleeting impression that rings every alarm in her head. It’s the way he looks sometimes, so calm and self-assured, and yet. She has seen the type before. Men who have everything in the world except the one thing they want most, and that leaves them a little broken inside, the way only a deep, crippling loss can.

 

She wonders if it’s a wife. An ex-wife. Or a dead wife.

 

.

 

It’s not a wife.

 

It’s a tall, awkward man with a British accent and he says, “Graves,” and there’s a weight of a thousand stories behind that single word.

 

Her first thought is, _now **that** is a name._

 

Graves (not Jack or John or Gerald) looks like he wants to flee, to bolt out of the shop and disappear into the busy street, but then his expression smooths, from the sharp ridges of shock to stony indifference.

 

“Scamander,” he nods and walks past him. When he reaches the counter, he orders a double espresso, face set in grim lines.

 

The other man hesitates, face flooded with longing. It’s such a raw expression that her eyes cannot linger. She tracks the progress of her marker on paper cup instead, thick black lines and extravagant curves. This will be the last time she ever writes Gerald.

 

The bell above the door tinkles. She sees the way Graves's fingers twitch, but the rest of him is motionless, even his face.

 

A hundred thousand stories, more like.

 

.

 

His name is Newt— _or Newton_ , he adds a moment later, with a shy twist of a smile.

 

She dutifully writes both, ‘Newt Newton’, and it makes him smile again, slightly crooked this time.

 

He doth smile too much, is her first conscious opinion of him. Most are no more than nervous twitches between beats of silence, but smiles are smiles and she finds herself returning them. He is almost always bundled up in a well-worn blue jacket and khakis and sweaters of one indeterminate colours or other. When he waits at the pick-up counter, he’ll stand at the very end, toying with a frayed tassel of an old grey scarf, eyes flitting from one corner of the shop to another, then another.

 

She thinks she knows what he’s looking for.

 

They almost never meet. Once a week at most. He comes late in the day while Graves makes his daily pilgrimage for caffeine early in the morning. If she notices him scanning the line or the crowded tables, then she knows better to mention it. She whips his order up as usual and signs the cup with a large, extravagant ‘G’. She doesn’t tell him that it no longer stands for ‘Gerald’.

 

When they do meet, however.

 

There must be a dance like that, she reflects with mounting exasperation as weeks pass and words do not. Where one steps closer and the other steps back. Where one looks away as the other looks up. She doesn’t think that kind of precision is possible if not deliberate (or, perhaps, the work of fate, but even the thought makes her cringe). Even the one time when they happen to stand next to each other, they spend the entire four and a half minutes in silence, eyes glued to their phones.

 

The next time it happens, she switches their cups for the sake of it.

 

Newt notices first. His eyes widen as he stares at the obnoxious ‘G’ covering one half of his cup. He stands frozen, holding a Cappuccino where he always has seven kinds of teas or Chai Lattes.

 

Graves doesn’t notice. Not until he takes a sip and swallows and the taste spreads, all silky smoothness with none of the bite. Surprise melts into something else a lot more tender, a lot more painful, but then his eyes flick up, toward Newt, and it’s gone.

 

She has an apology at the tip of her tongue, but he doesn’t call her out. Doesn’t even look at her until he turns and leaves.

 

If there’s a sadder picture than Newt Scamander cradling the cup to his chest, a thumb pressed under the looping curve that shapes the ‘G’, then she has never seen it.

 

“Are you sure you don’t want some cookies?”

 

He shakes his head slowly, eyes downcast.

 

Now she has.

 

.

 

Newt, as it turns out, does not give up easily.

 

The next day sees him launching a determined campaign. He appropriates a table in a secluded corner behind a tall potted plant and ensconces himself there for the entire day. If he isn’t tapping away at a laptop, then he will be consulting books and jotting down notes and soon the entire surface will be covered full with his stuffs that there is no space left even for a mug of tea. Every time the bell sounds, he will look up, hopeful—and then look down again, disappointed.

 

Graves doesn’t make an appearance that day.

 

Neither does he appear on the next day. Or the day after that. Or the day after.

 

 _Maybe he’s out of town,_ she almost blurts out when Newt comes up to the counter for the fifth time on the fifth day for another cup of tea. He’s always endlessly polite, but his smile sags a little as he lets his gaze stray outside to the snow-laced street. 

 

She gives him a slice of warm apple pie free of charge. The smile he gives her in return is slightly crooked and tears at her heart.

 

Another week of fruitless waiting has passed when he finally approaches the subject with her. “I wonder,” he starts, then pauses. “This might sound a bit silly.”

 

“Yes?” she prompts, encouraging.

 

Another false start ensues, but Newt finally manages to convey his meaning. She listens with growing unease as he describes his simple request—an advance payment, a cup of coffee, made to order and delivered only when Graves appears.

 

“Because, you see, I won’t be able to come here tomorrow,” he finishes quietly, fingers twisting one end of his grey scarf. Red, the untimely thought slips in; red would have suited him better.

 

“I’m very sorry,” she tries to flood her voice with as much kindness as possible, “but that’ll be against the store’s policy.”

 

“Oh, right.” Newt looks crestfallen. “Right. Sorry. I didn’t mean to– it was just an idea. Sorry again.”

 

“And he doesn’t always drop by.”

 

“Yes.” He laughs, a sad little sound. “I know that now.”

 

It’s a good thing that her brother always makes the pie fresh every day.

 

.

 

Three days after Newt has stopped coming, Graves finally appears.

 

He looks thinner and paler, shadows haunting the lines on his face. He greets her with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes and makes his order as usual, an espresso in the morning. If he also happens to look around, searching the faces crowding the place, then she makes no mention of it.

 

She does, however, slip three large chocolate chip cookies into a paper bag and says something like the hundredth customer of the day despite the shop’s being open only for fifteen minutes now. He raises a thick eyebrow but accepts the bag, and she satisfies herself with the thought that at least he’ll have something to eat before the day begins.

 

His daily regimen continues. He stops by every day, sometimes twice a day, staying for at least an hour or two. He’ll be busy with his phone the entire time, but the slightest sound coming from the door will make him look up. Once, he stays until the closing hour, a silent ghost with hope-starved eyes at a corner table.

 

Newt’s table.

 

She starts plying him with food. Pies. Pastries. Cakes. Sandwiches. Her own homemade pasta once. He starts spending more time in the café, conducting business calls from the corner table as if it were his own corner office. She substitutes half of his coffee orders with fresh juices and smoothies, citing health reasons when his protests inevitably arrive.

 

“Again?” he sighs when she puts down a banana berry smoothie and a cinnamon cheese pie on his table.

 

“I’m charging you for the drink,” she tells him firmly. “But the pie is a new recipe and I just want to make sure that it’s all right, your having a very discerning taste and all…”

 

It doesn’t quite make him laugh, but at least his smile holds real amusement in it.

 

“It’s very nice,” is his verdict after taking a bite. “But personally I think cinnamon is made for apple.”

 

For one reason or another, his words make her grin so hard that her cheeks hurt. “There’s this guy who used to come here every day,” she tells him. “He sat at this table from morning to night, drinking a dozen cups of tea and chai lattes because he can’t really drink coffee. (Blasphemy, I know.) He loved Jacob’s apple and cinnamon pie so much that he’d have at least one slice every day.”

 

Graves says nothing for some time. She tries not to read his expression; it feels too private, somehow.

 

“It’s not what you think,” he finally says. Behind the glasses, his eyes are perhaps a little sad.

 

“I’m not thinking anything,” she replies with a shrug, if not quite truthfully. “It’s just a story.”

 

He gives her a look and she grins, using an arriving customer as an excuse to escape.

 

.

 

“It’s not what you think,” he says another time. “We had a perfectly amicable separation.”

 

She raises her eyebrows but attempts no interruption. The evening is late and all the other customers have left half an hour ago. He arrived looking like the entire world had betrayed him and when he ordered a triple espresso, she said nothing.

 

“Sometimes people just are not suitable for each other.” The way he speaks is distant, like talking about someone else. She sits opposite, hanging to every word. “He was young, barely out of college. I was much older and already jaded. Am still jaded. And you’ve seen him. The brightest, warmest soul in the room.”

 

 _Have you seen the way he looks at you,_ she wants to say, but she knows nothing will get through his walls at the moment. He’s living the past, stuck in that splinter of a golden moment when he had love and could touch love with his naked fingers.

 

“You’re still in love with him.”

 

That gets through. He smiles, all ghosts and memories. “It’s not because of. It’s despite of.”

 

.

 

It takes Newt two months to come back.

 

She almost vaults over the counter when he walks in, still in the same blue jacket, nondescript sweater, and eternally grey scarf. His face is a little tanned, the freckles a little subdued, but not even that can cover the blush rising to his face when he notices Graves sitting at the corner table, staring at him as if he cannot quite believe his eyes.

 

“Gone off to the end of the world, have you?” she says by way of greeting—and if her voice is much louder than strictly necessary, then she can always put it down to excitement.

 

“I did actually,” he says with a crooked grin. “I went to Fiji with a documentary team.”

 

There is a sound of a chair scraping the floor and she can feel her heart leaping to her throat. Newt is similarly frozen, eyes wide as he stares at the coffee machine behind her.

 

Graves doesn’t approach them. Instead, he hurries to the door and leaves.

 

_Oh for the love of–_

 

More than anything, it’s the look on Newt’s face that cracks her heart. He breathes in deeply, a small, self-deprecating smile on his lips.

 

“It’s really pathetic, isn’t it?”

 

 _Yes,_ she would have answered, _but not in the way you think_.

 

.

 

When Graves appears in the evening on the next day, she is ready.

 

He looks a little nervous today, scrolling his phone over and over again as he waits in line. His order is an Americano and he hesitates when she asks, rather sternly, if there is anything else.

 

“Actually,” he clears his throat, pushing his glasses up the slope of his nose, “can you make that one Americano and one Chai Latte, both to go, please?”

 

She stares at him. And then breathes out. “My god. Fucking finally.”

 

The smile he shoots her way is wry but maybe also a little embarrassed. “It’s still not what you think.”

 

“Whatever you say, G.”

 

“It’s Percival, actually.”

 

“Huh.” She cannot help the slow spread of a triumphant grin across her face. “See, now that sounds right. You do look like a Percival.”

 

“If you say so.”

 

She grabs two extra large cups and writes down the names accordingly. ‘Percival’ is a magnificent sweep that spans the entire cup. “Do you know how it felt to have to watch you moping around for months? Talk about regretting your life choices. I mean, sure, you’re so handsome all broody like that, but there’s only so much a girl can take, you know what I’m saying?”

 

“Vaguely.”

 

“So now what? You know where he lives?”

 

“I’ve known for weeks.”

 

“An idiot, that’s what you are,” she declares brutally. “And yesterday, what was that all about?”

 

“I don’t know.” He looks down at his hands. “It was just, after months of waiting, and he suddenly… I guess I’m more a coward than I thought.”

 

“Don’t tell me that you’re going to ring the bell tonight and–” She stops, gaping at the door. Newt is standing at the threshold like a deer in the headlights, eyes fixed on Percival. There is a large bruise on one side of his face.

 

Percival turns.

 

Newt is quicker, turning on his heel and walking away from the shop. She blinks. Percival doesn’t stay still this time and within two seconds he’s already out in the street, giving chase.

 

A minute or so later, they return, Percival’s hand on Newt’s back as he sits him down at their usual table. They’re still arguing in hushed voices. Newt winces. Percival scowls at him until he stays quiet under his ministrations.

 

She brings their drinks and a pack of ice.

 

“What happened?”

 

“It’s nothing,” Newt sighs and Percival snorts. “Really, the other guy’s worse.”

 

“You got into a fight?”

 

Newt flinches at the cold press on his face—and she grimaces in sympathy. The bruise looks ugly and painful. “Not really a fight. I was just telling him that it’s no way to treat his dog. Bit of a busybody, I know, but you should’ve seen the way he treated her. Then he hit me and it sort of escalated from there. But at least she’s safe now in the shelter. I would’ve taken her, but–”

 

“You should go to the hospital,” Percival interrupts curtly although the hands cleaning the scrapes across Newt’s knuckles are carefully gentle.

 

“I’m all right.”

 

“In fact, you should’ve gone to the hospital right away,” Percival continues, ignoring him. “What are you thinking, going here instead?”

 

“I’ll have to go back to London tomorrow,” Newt blurts out, the words a little muffled by the ice pack. “So I thought, well, maybe for the last time.”

 

She tactfully makes her retreat then. Newt has turned beet red and Percival is now staring at him with a kind of wonder that is both amusing and heart-breaking. All they need, she thinks, is time.

 

She is proven right when Percival places a kiss on Newt’s injured hand, followed by a smile, two smiles, then two hands entwined around the worn grey scarf.

 

.

 

Percival returns alone in the morning.

 

“He’s gone?” she asks, keeping her voice low as she works quickly, making three drinks at once. The morning rush is over, but a few customers are still waiting in line.

 

“Yeah.” He sounds carefully, perfectly casual. “Just dropped him off at JFK.”

 

“So?”

 

“Who knows. We’ll see, I suppose.” He pauses, absentmindedly playing with a sugar packet. “It just feels weird.”

 

“Maybe you’re already missing him.”

 

There is no reply from him for some time. She looks up, one hand around a freezing cold tumbler. “Oh my god. Are you?”

 

Percival has a thoughtful look on his face. “Do you think it’s too crazy to, I don’t know, go after him or something?”

 

She stares, suddenly breathless. “Do _you_ think it’s too crazy?”

 

“Yes.” His answer comes without hesitation. “Never done anything crazy in my life.”

 

 _Obviously_. “Never too late to start, just saying.”

 

“What if he doesn’t like it?”

 

She rolls her eyes so hard they almost fall off the back of her head. “Are you really this stupid or just playing stupid?”

 

When he smiles this time, it’s the same crooked smile that so often graces Newt’s face. “Neither, I guess.”

 

“Then what are you waiting for?”

 

.

 

She doesn’t see him for a fortnight, but when she finally does, Newt and his new dog come with him.

 

_**End** _

 


End file.
